


Necrophilia Variations

by chiaroscure



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drugs, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Necrophilia, Porn with Feelings, Pre Season 2 Finale, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unconscious Sex, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiaroscure/pseuds/chiaroscure
Summary: It feels…intimate. He looks into Nandor’s face, half expecting him to be watching, but of course he is not. His eyes are closed, his head lolling senselessly. He has no idea what is happening.Just like always.
Relationships: Guillermo de la Cruz/Nandor the Relentless
Comments: 19
Kudos: 45





	Necrophilia Variations

Sometimes, people take drugs. Sleep aids make humans easy victims, but they also ruin vampires’ abilities to do much for the rest of the night. Dealing with the fallout is just part of the job of a familiar.

It's not even a bad part of the job. Guillermo has fond memories tucked away of a bat slamming into the window and himself running outside to find Nandor sprawled out on the lawn, giggling to himself. He’s good to be around when he’s like that, at least until he passes out and Guillermo has to get him the rest of the way inside alone.

Vampires don’t breathe when they sleep. Well, they might when they’re just dozing, but when they are fully, deeply asleep, they don’t move at all. They don’t flick their eyelids in dreaming saccades; they don’t twitch or murmur, and they don’t breathe. Under ordinary circumstances it is possible to wake them up with enough effort, but when they’ve been less than meticulous about their choice of victim for the evening, they don’t even respond to being accidentally dropped onto hardwood floors (or to the loud swearing that followed, the one time that happened).

This is when they seem most like what they _truly_ are, under all the powers and accents and deadly fangs. Corpses. Plain and simple.

Guillermo knows how to handle corpses. He spends much more time than he would like hauling them out to the yard for disposal; it isn’t that different to get a drugged vampire from the sofa where he passed out into the safety of his coffin. Nandor is trickier than most victims thanks to his warlord’s physique, but still, a body is a body, and Guillermo has moved trickier than his.

Normally he wouldn’t care, but he isn’t supposed to be working tonight. Guillermo appreciates the breaks that he gets as of a couple weeks ago. He really does. He should have been getting them all this time, and they should be longer, and he should have a better room, and he has maybe wasted eleven years of his permanently limited lifespan, and, and, and — but he’s _trying_ to appreciate the changes. He _wants_ to be happy here. But it’s hard not to feel like Nandor is mocking him by choosing an evening Guillermo was _told_ he had off to drain somebody who had clearly downed an impressive amount of eszopiclones about an hour before Nandor found them. Drinking drugged victims is not a mistake (or decision) Nandor makes often, so it’s all but impossible to take this as anything but an insult. Yes, Guillermo can have breaks, but yes, he will always choose Nandor’s safety over his own ethical treatment. Guillermo knows that. Nandor knows that. He doesn’t have to rub his face in it.

Typically when this has happened before, Guillermo hasn’t bothered with the full dawn routine. It’s too hard, and Nandor is too unconscious to care. Moving his master’s full weight up into his coffin is difficult enough without also having to undress and dress him again in different clothes. Especially when Nandor doesn’t get home until close to sunrise, which is usually the case when drugs are in the picture.

Tonight, though, Nandor came home early. There is no time pressure, and Guillermo’s mood is a confusing mix of nostalgia and resentment, so he decides to go through the whole thing despite the difficulty. He actually likes doing these tasks when Nandor is awake, but he shouldn’t have to do it now, and definitely not when Nandor’s out cold, but it’s also not like he was doing anything else anyway; he doesn’t have a life thanks to this job. Going through the whole meticulous process without any help seems both meditative and vindictive. 

The boots go first, as always. He remembers the very first time he did this, how flustered it had made him to kneel before the vampire like scene from a dream…hands trailing along his inner ankles…calling him _Master_ ….

That lost a lot of its charge with repetition. But with Nandor dead to the world and unable to interrupt Guillermo’s memories with his…Nandorness, some of the thrill comes tingling back tonight. The subservience combines oddly with the control of removing boots from the feet of what is, at present, little more than a doll.

Nandor took the cape off before he lost the plot entirely, which was a nice enough gesture, Guillermo supposes, if he’s reaching. The fur, jacket, and cotton shirt don’t pose much difficulty; they all open completely in the front and can be slipped off of Nandor’s shoulders easily by tipping his torso forward. The undershirt is more of a fight, requiring that Guillermo tug the linen pirahan over his head without ripping it. Nandor’s arms, powerful though they are when animate, are just heavy weights in the dead sleep he’s in now, and Guillermo struggles to puppeteer them in order to untangle the vampire from his light garment. It takes some inelegant maneuvering, but he does eventually get it off, leaving it on the floor beside his other clothes to be picked up later.

Guillermo turns back to finish the job but stops when he has a second to observe the results of his work. Nandor is slumped against the arm of the sofa shirtless and shoeless, his head tipped loosely back, one arm hanging delicately off the edge of the sofa and the other lazing at the crux of his inner thigh. The curve of his throat is beautiful displayed like this, so open and vulnerable. Guillermo traces it with his eyes the way can’t when Nandor is awake, his gaze catching on the imperfect line where the black hair under Nandor’s chin meets the smooth skin beneath it. He sees this line every day when he trims Nandor’s beard, but now he is not working. He is on break, technically. No one is here to mind if he just looks at it, just for a moment.

He knows that there is no scar there. He has searched before for evidence of Nandor’s turning, but there is none. Still, Guillermo cannot help but search again, since there’s no reason for him not to. Where had the unknown vampire’s teeth sunk into the then-living arteries? What would it have been like to bury his face in that bronzed skin, to stake his claim to it, to feel the pulse racing there? Nandor wouldn’t notice if he touched that spot now; Nandor isn’t paying attention. Nandor is unconscious.

Nandor is _dead_.

Guillermo pulls himself out of the fantasy with a shake of his head. There wouldn’t be any pulse there to feel, and it wouldn’t be appropriate anyway. Nandor is, for all intents and purposes, a _corpse_ , and taking care of _corpses_ , vampiric or otherwise, is Guillermo’s _job_. On break or no.

The pants are tricky, but Guillermo manages. He pulls the body down the sofa in the process so his neck isn’t quite so on display, which is probably for the best. As he is pulling the thick fabric off his master’s ankles, Guillermo almost yields to the temptation to be petty and just let his feet bang down wherever they happen to land. But he doesn’t, instead shouldering their weight so that he can lay the vampire’s legs one by one respectfully back down on the upholstery after discarding the trousers.

Nandor’s long pirahan functions as his only undergarment. Guillermo is very aware of this, having dressed and undressed him every night for more than a decade, but somehow that fact startles him now that Nandor is lying completely nude on the sofa in front of him. One ankle still held forgotten in his hand, Guillermo stares, almost forgetting to breathe himself. 

It is not easy to forget that Nandor is beautiful, but Guillermo does not often have the opportunity just to wallow in that fact like he’s looking at a sculpture in a museum. The lines of his body glow against the shadows, formidable but for the moment elegantly lax, too pale even in the warm candlelight. His broad shoulders, the powerful musculature beneath the smoothing layer of fat, the dark hair accentuating the line running between his pectorals down to his navel and lower, to….

It is almost certainly as a result of the strange mood he has been in for the last couple of weeks, but Guillermo feels dizzy thinking about it.

He sits on the sofa level with Nandor’s knee, gingerly moving the foot he momentarily forgot about over his lap. He can hear his own heart hammering thinly as he holds his fingers an inch over Nandor’s shin and slowly, slowly lowers them to graze through the hair lining his leg. Though he knows that he couldn’t wake Nandor up right now if he were to hit him over the head with a frying pan, Guillermo hardly dares to breathe as he lets his fingers trail agonizingly up past Nandor’s knee, onto his thigh.

He has dreamed of being allowed to touch Nandor like this for years, but he has never actually had the opportunity to do it. The orange light from the candles makes the soft dips of Nandor’s flesh where his own fingertips gently press look deeper than they are, like little pools of rich velvet sliding with him as he moves. He swirls meaningless patterns into the thigh, watching each individual hair slip into and out of shadow as he goes.

It feels…intimate. He pulls his gaze away from where it has been hypnotically trained, up to Nandor’s face, half expecting him to be watching.

But of course he is not. His eyes are closed, his head lolling senselessly, asleep. He has no idea what is happening.

 _Just like always_ , Guillermo thinks bitterly. He doesn’t want the thought to hurt, but it does.

The angle at which Nandor’s head has fallen doesn’t look quite as nice as Guillermo would like it to. On impulse, he leans up to position it more comfortably on the pillow, fanning his silken hair over his shoulders the way he likes it most. He pulls a stay lock away from his face where it covers the laugh lines, etched around his unmoving eyes in a long-lost era when his skin was still warm with life. Before pulling away, he lets his fingers linger at Nandor’s temples where a few fine strands of silver streak through the black.

Lying motionless like this, he looks so much like himself and yet so eerie too. If he were alive Guillermo would be able to feel the rise and fall of his chest, but now there is nothing. No fill of his lungs, no thrum of his heart, even though this position has Guillermo leaning flush against him.

It’s not even a conscious choice to strip himself too. It just seems like the right thing to do. He just wants to feel the contrast of his own life against death. He settles again easily between Nandor’s bare legs, pressing against his bare stomach, his forearms resting against his bare flanks. Nandor’s body leeches the warmth from his own, but he doesn’t mind. The edges where his heat ends and Nandor’s coldness begins are never this raw, and he welcomes the naked honesty of the contrast. 

He has imagined the reverse of this countless times, but having his master’s body laid out powerlessly under him is soothing in a way he never would have anticipated. He feels important, for once. He feels equal. He feels calmer than he has in months.

Now he does let his face tip forward against Nandor’s throat, inhaling the his rich, full, strange scent deeply. Nothing alive smells like this, but it’s not unpleasant — if anything, it’s purer than how normal humans smell, with no tang of life to taint it. If he pulled the skin there between his teeth, could he draw a little purple bruise on the unnatural pallor? How long would it last before it faded again as Nandor’s undead body forgot his attempt to mark it? If he bit down, what would his blood taste like? He has wondered for so long…

He doesn’t even realize he has been ignoring the eroticism of how he is sitting until he feels Nandor’s cock hardening against him. It surprises him that this is even possible; it seems contradictory, but it’s really no weirder than anything else about vampires. Nothing about Nandor’s physiology has changed just because he’s passed out; he’s as dead awake as he is asleep. Guillermo shifts instinctively forward so he can grind against him, a shaky whimper escaping his lips against the vampire’s throat.

He should not be doing this. He knows in the rational part of his mind that there are several things wrong with this picture. But the more he rolls his hips the harder Nandor grows against him, and the more difficult it is to feel like it’s wrong. The frustration, the distance, the awkwardness, the resentment — all that melts away from the friction of their bodies against each other.

 _This is how things could be_ , he thinks dizzily _; this is how things would be if you weren’t so stubborn, you know?_ He holds onto Nandor’s sides, possessive and tender at once, feeling the muscle and bone of his ribs under the smooth, soft flesh. As if responding to his thoughts, Nandor’s cock twitches against his and Guillermo lets out a low, desperate moan, the heat coiling in him making a titillating contrast to the chill of the body under him.

Guillermo knows which of the oils in Nandor’s crypt can be used for this. Fortunately, several such vials are on the table within arm’s reach. He sits back to pull out the stopper, coating his fingers in the fine yellow-green oil. The thrill of allowing his eyes to roam hungrily over every bit of his master — his face, his body, his cock — takes over as he works himself open. He finds himself suddenly ravenous for this, the years of powerlessness breaking into this opportunity to do what he wants, and he’s going to take it for all it’s worth.

He leans forward as his back arches, up to two fingers scissoring inside him now, his ear pressed heavy to Nandor’s chest. He can hear his own pounding pulse, but that’s it. It should be unsettling, but he’s too far gone for the stark horror of it to do anything but spur him on.

He wants to start in earnest so badly, but he knows he’ll need three fingers to be properly prepared. His master is well-proportioned in all ways, and the thick length of him is going to hurt if he doesn’t give himself a little more time. He sinks down onto his third finger with a sigh, imagining they aren’t his own, pumping Nandor slowly with his other hand. The contrast of how dead to this Nandor looks to the drip of precum leaking from his tip makes Guillermo’s own cock strain to be touched too when he smears the viscous liquid with his thumb, but then this will be over too quickly. So he doesn’t, just continues to make space inside himself, pushing himself, panting with the effort.

When his body is begging for more than the three fingers he is using, it’s time. He pulls back, realigning Nandor’s legs on the sofa so that he can straddle him. He coats Nandor’s cock generously with more of the oil, then holds it firmly so that he can sink down onto him. A needy whine spills from his throat at the painful relief of finally being filled with what he’s wanted for so long.

Instinctively he knows this is wrong. The cold flesh feels foreign and sickly inside him. It should disgust him to ride a dead body like this. And at some animal level it _is_ weird, but Nandor’s thumb happens to be rubbing against his knee almost caringly, and it’s not disgusting. It could never be disgusting, because it’s Nandor.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmurs as the reality of that washes through him. Nandor might not know what is happening, but this _is_ Nandor. This is Nandor. Oh _fuck_ , this is _Nandor_.

His body tenses as a shiver rolls up his spine, and he pushes himself down hard.

If Nandor were awake, Guillermo would not have the courage or the patience to place his hands over his chest to brace himself — but Nandor is not awake, and so he does, taking his time to feel the dense muscle beneath the fat, the soft tickle of the hair between his fingers, the small bumps of his nipples under his palms. He shifts his weight forward, and then pushes back down to grind their hips together again, and again, and again.

He settles into a rhythm. It is easier, in some ways, without any need to coordinate his motions with another person. Almost like masturbation, if masturbation came with the rush of being with the person he has been in love with for a decade. The burning heat in his stomach builds each time he drives himself down at just the right angle. There are no clues from Nandor’s expression about whether or not he’s enjoying himself, but every twitch of his cock makes Guillermo’s own heart skip a little because it’s proof that he’s not alone. That, in some perverse way, they are doing this together.

With every roll of his hips Nandor’s body moves slightly, his arms jiggling loosely at his sides. It isn’t quite what Guillermo had imagined in his fantasies, but there is something titillating about the way it makes his skin crawl. Nandor’s body still refuses to warm from his touch but he’s sweating anyway, his skin on fire from the intensity, so he doesn’t mind.

His own arms are shaking from the effort and his legs are shaking from the pleasure, so he collapses forward again, nestling his face once more into the crux of the cool throat and rocking his body back and forth. He hooks his feet under Nandor’s thighs to that he can drag them up, as if Nandor is thrusting into him when he pushes back on him. So far, his own cock has gone untouched, but now the friction between their bodies makes him gasp against Nandor’s skin. He’s getting closer and closer with every motion, but the tighter the tension inside him coils the more overwhelmed he feels for reasons he can’t quite grasp. He picks up the pace, trying to outrun the swell of emotion, but it’s not enough. Unthinking, he reaches for Nandor’s limp arms at his sides and lifts them clumsily around his own back. They don’t feel quite right, but they are heavy like they should be, and it’s enough that he can pretend that Nandor is really holding him the way he wishes he would.

His orgasm hits him hard and without warning, a split second after he realizes there are hot tears streaking down his face. He chokes on what might be either a sob or a scream into Nandor’s chest, clutching him as if his own life depends on it as he empties himself between them.

It is all suddenly too much. Still, he’s gripped with the irrational need to keep going. Nandor is unconscious, but as the confusing tears continue to stream down Guillermo’s face he somehow needs for him to finish too. He has no idea how close Nandor is, but he’ll keep going through the raw overstimulation of it to trick himself into believing that this has been good for both of them.

It doesn’t take long. With only a few strokes, he feels the telltale pulsing spill of fluid. He makes himself keep moving until the aftershocks are completely finished, as he would if Nandor were awake to feel it. When it’s over, he melts down against Nandor’s chest again, every shred of his strength evaporating. He is panting and sweating and crying but there’s a sort of peace to it, with Nandor’s arms wrapped around him, passively comforting him as he comes down.

He probably shouldn’t kiss him, but he does. He puts his hand to Nandor’s cheek and his mouth to his lips and kisses him soft and deep, tasting the cool wetness of his mouth and marveling at the sharp fangs he has never once touched before. He pours every shred of everything he has ever felt for him into the kiss, their first and only.

And, as always, he gets nothing back.

He pulls away. For a long moment, he looks again into the indifferent face of this…this _thing_ he has loved for too long, before feebly forcing himself up. Then he dresses himself in fragile silence. The tears have stopped, but he’s sure they could start again at any moment if he lets himself think too much.

Cleaning Nandor’s skin doesn’t feel real, but his hand is steady as he does it. He should put him in his sleep clothes — that was the plan, wasn’t it? But that seems too suspect now, so he carefully slips the clothes from earlier back onto the body on the sofa before hoisting it up into a sitting position. As he has done every time Nandor got himself drugged like this before, he sits beside him and places his arm around his shoulders so that he can carry the giant ragdoll of a vampire over to his coffin. His already tired legs shake with the effort but he is determined, and soon Nandor is laid out in the fur-lined box, serene and still, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Guillermo has heard stories of much worse than this from all the vampires. What he just did would be nothing more than a mildly entertaining anecdote to Nandor if he knew about it, but still Guillermo feels sick. Part of it is guilt for betraying his master’s trust — a large part of it, even if he tells himself it doesn’t really matter. Maybe that should be all, but there is also a hollow, gnawing, selfish mourning for what he has just done to himself. Eleven years of service, of devotion, of _life_ , and all he has to show for it is a weekend night spent working and a stolen necrophilic fuck that only he’ll remember. His eyes burn, but he won’t let himself cry again.

He closes the lid of the coffin and tidies the room before stepping out into the hallway.

He has lived here for eleven years, but packing everything he owns takes only a little over an hour.

The note takes longer. He has toyed with doing this before, more and more in recent months, but that doesn’t mean he knows how to explain his decision.

In the end it’s simple, though. He leaves the piece of folded paper in the closet that was never really his, before slipping out alone into the light of day so he will not have to say anything other than,

 _Sorry_.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen...you know…it is what it is. Thanks for reading x


End file.
